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I would say I wouldn't have minded loving a birch,
if, instead of being such drama queens every Fall,
such harsh mistresses in the spring,
they were somewhere in-between.


But when one is immobile, one chooses the closest.


Still, we had a root-to-root deep connection,
but with that came below-ground introspection
(too may things grow in darkness),
so we concentrated on the conscious parts of our selves --
our limbs, our intertwine. In our time we wined and dined
years into decades, until she was cut down by blight.


Then an ax-wielding butcher provided fireplace enjoyment
for a wealthy family of four for, oh, three months.